But he hadn’t been able to show that she had taken the train to Marlborough. And so he hadn’t questioned whether or not she had her valise with her. Or if she had left it there.
He would have to go back there and find out. If only to satisfy himself. And Markham’s eagle eye for any lapse.
It was late when he left his motorcar just by the station. The older stationmaster was again on duty. There were no trains expected for the next half hour, and he was sitting in the tiny office, finishing his dinner.
Rutledge tapped on the door when he had failed to find the man on the platform or in the waiting room.
After a moment he opened it, napkin in hand, a bit of food at the corner of his mouth. “Can I help you, sir?”
He began with the unidentified woman. “Do you have a room for left luggage?”
“Hardly a room, sir. A closet. What is it you care to leave?”
“I’d like to examine the other pieces of luggage, if you please.”
He took out his identification and handed it to the stationmaster. The man peered at it, frowned, and said, “If I’m not mistaken, you were here before. I can’t say that I remember why. I don’t know that I should let you look at what’s there. It’s rather irregular.”
“I’m searching for a valise that might have belonged to a woman who was murdered in Avebury.”
The stationmaster’s eyebrows rose. “Murdered, you say?”
“I’m afraid so.”
But the man didn’t move. “The left luggage?” Rutledge reminded him, and the stationmaster went back to his desk, took out a key from the top drawer, and said, “This way, then.”
The room was indeed no more than an overly large closet, occupied at the moment with a broom, a pail, and a feather duster.
And one valise. Brown leather, well cared for, of a size that a woman might carry for herself, rather than ask for a porter.
There was a torn piece of stationery wrapped around the handle.
Rutledge unwound it and read the words printed there.
Left luggage. Katherine Smith. To be called for.
Below that, a date had been hastily scribbled. He couldn’t make it out at first, but after holding the scrap of paper under a lamp, he deciphered it.
It was the night of the murder.
Who else could it be but Karina? he thought. But aloud Rutledge said, “This appears to be what I’m after. I’ll take it with me.”
The stationmaster said, “I’m not sure—you must sign a receipt for it.”
“Yes, all right.” He followed the man back to the tiny office, waited while he searched in a drawer for paper, and then pulled the inkwell and a pen past the tray with his dinner, and offered them to Rutledge.
He signed the piece of paper, noting the name on the torn bit of stationery, the date left, and the present date and time. “No one called for this valise?”
“No, sir. As you see.”
Finally satisfied, the stationmaster peered at the sheet, nodding in satisfaction, and was already back in his chair, tucking his napkin under his chin as Rutledge shut the door.
Valise in hand, he walked back to his motorcar and set it in the boot. Then he went to the hotel nearest the station. It was small, but popular with travelers coming in on the train.
The man behind the desk at Reception was not busy. Rutledge showed him his identification, gave him the date he was after, and the name, Katherine Smith.
“Let me see.” Flipping pages in the ledger kept under the desk, he ran his finger down several of them before he found what he was looking for. “No one by that name, I’m afraid.”
Rutledge tried to think. “Apparently Katherine used her friend’s name instead. Karina—I’m sorry, I don’t have her last name.”
“Ah, yes. Yes, here we are. A room booked by a telegram from London. Late arrival on the London train. Karina Leslie.”
He found it nearly impossible to hide his surprise. “So she kept the booking?”
“Yes, indeed. Paid in full, and transportation from the station. It’s all here. Including the relevant telegram.”
Rutledge said, “Does it indicate when she arrived?”
“It says ‘Hold for late arrival.’ It would have been waiting for her at any time after six in the evening.”
And the London train was several hours later than six. It fit.
“You’re quite sure she arrived?”
“Yes, certainly. I do see she didn’t have breakfast here. It was included, of course.”
“Please be sure. She did arrive to take that room that night.”
“It was paid for, sir. She had only to sign the register and take her key.” He pulled out the register, opened it to the date in question, and ran his finger down the names there. After a moment, he looked up, concern in his gaze. “There must be some mistake, sir. I don’t—see for yourself. She appears not to have signed in.”
Leaving Marlborough behind, he drove on to Avebury. The night was quiet, the pub had closed, and there was no one about when he took the stairs to his room, his own valise in hand.
Five minutes later, he went down again and brought back Katherine Smith’s.
Shutting the door, he lit the lamp, put it on the table by the bed, and looked at the note again. It had been scribbled in haste. That was all it could tell him.
Why had Karina decided to leave her valise at the railway station? Assuming he was right, and this was her valise. Had she brought it, expecting to go to the hotel, and there had been a last-minute change of plans?
She must have done it quickly and quietly, shoving it inside the station waiting room while the hysterical woman from the train was being dealt with. After that, she’d disappeared.
Hamish said, “It’s no’ wise to leap to conclusions. Ye canna’ be sure it’s no’ Katherine Smith’s.”
“Then she shouldn’t have left it there in the closet for all this time,” he replied, already examining the case.
He tried the locks. First one and then the other opened, and after the briefest hesitation, he lifted the lid of the valise.
Her clothing was scented by a very feminine perfume, the small vial wrapped in a handkerchief to prevent it from breaking and spilling.
Spreading each item out carefully on his bed, Rutledge lifted out three changes of clothing, undergarments, a pair of shoes, a nightgown and robe, stockings, hand lotion and face powder, three more handkerchiefs, and a small silk purse for jewelry.
There were earrings, a bracelet, and a locket. He opened the locket. A small child’s face looked back at him from the photograph inside. A boy, smiling shyly. It was hard to judge his age when this was taken. Two? Three? The edges of the photograph were yellowing slightly, as if it had been cut from a larger one, to fit into the locket. Dark haired, like his mother, and the face oval, like hers.
Rutledge stared at it, trying to see if the child favored Leslie at all. But if he were honest, there was nothing to indicate who the father was.
He had no doubt now. This was Karina’s valise. He put the jewelry back in the little silk purse, and lifted out the last item, in the very bottom, under everything else.
Wrapped in another handkerchief, it was a packet of letters.
Rutledge whistled under his breath.